


Honor Among Thieves

by madsthenerdygirl



Series: Merlin Memory Month '18 [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Merlin is a particularly gifted art thief. Arthur is his partner in crime.





	Honor Among Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> For the second round of prompts for Merlin Memory Month: I combined three prompts, "Nobility is defined by what you do, not who you are," "proud" and "partners in crime/forced to work together."

As always, right before they had to move forward, Merlin felt a surge of panic. It wasn’t going to work. The guard rotation would have been changed. The jammer for the security system would short out. Gwen’s intel was faulty. Gaius had gotten picked up by Interpol and had sold them out.

They were all stupid fears, and he knew it. Gaius was the best fence in the business and he wasn’t going to crack after so many years, not to Interpol of all groups. And if there was a better hacker or information broker than Gwen, they hadn’t been born yet.

“You at the door?” Merlin asked, listening to the familiar and comforting sound of Arthur’s breathing on the other end of the headset.

“Yes,” Arthur replied. Merlin could hear the warm smile in his voice. “You’re not panicking, are you?”

“What? No.” Merlin spoke too quickly, and winced, knowing he’d given himself away.

Arthur’s chuckle over the headset was warm and intimate, reminding Merlin of how he’d been this morning in their tiny loft apartment. It was a small studio, and had no central heating so it was freezing in the mornings, especially now with autumn setting in. Merlin could well remember feeling his face heat up with shame when he’d first shown it to Arthur, knowing it wasn’t what the son of a duke would be used to. But Arthur had just wrapped an arm around Merlin’s waist and kissed his neck, telling him it was perfect, because they had earned it. It was theirs.

That morning Arthur had woken up first, as he usually did, and so Merlin had woken up to find coffee already made and Arthur sitting up on the mattress that served as their bed, reading the daily paper. The sunlight had been making a valiant effort to push through the clouds and some of it had fallen on Arthur, and dammit it was so bloody romantic and stupid but Merlin hadn’t been able to help himself when he thought that Arthur looked like a painting or something, all bulky muscle (from lifting painting frames) and soft blond hair and bright, sparkling blue eyes.

That was the real reason he always got so nervous when they did this. The thrill of the theft had always been there and still was, but it was so different from when Merlin had been doing this on his own. Now he had Arthur to worry about—Arthur who had so much to lose.

It was easy to forget when they were entwined in bed together and Arthur was giving him those slow, deep kisses that made Merlin melt, or when they were taking a walk down to their favorite café, or when they were just being  _them_. Merlin could even forget when they were looking at blueprints or doing research or practicing their parkour. But then Arthur would say something like, “Oh yes, you needn’t worry about the earl, I remember he drinks himself into a stupor every night,” or, “I went to that museum for a gala when I was nine, I think if I remember correctly…” and Merlin was reminded, all over again, that Arthur could walk away from this. Arthur had another life, a better life, that he’d given up to be with Merlin—and he knew it was more than that. He knew that this was an escape for Arthur and that he hadn’t been happy before but it was so hard sometimes when Merlin knew that if they were caught, he was just a nobody, the son of a single mother from a small Welsh town that nobody had even heard of—Arthur, though, Arthur would be dragged out to face scandal from all sides. Merlin would rather die than be the reason that happened to Arthur.

“It’s fine, Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice low and intimate, as if he was standing right there and speaking the words into Merlin’s ear in person instead of through a headset. “Door’s unlocked, I just saw the guard turn the corner into the next gallery. You ready?”

“Always,” Merlin replied.

“All right. In three… two… one.”

Merlin stretched out his hand towards the security room. He could feel the energy crackling between his fingertips. It was so much easier now that he had a partner. Arthur could physically lift the paintings while Merlin focused on manipulating the security cameras. That was the big thing—otherwise you had to get someone on the inside who could access the cameras for you and put them on a loop, and that just raised a whole set of complications that Merlin didn’t want to deal with.

He felt that steady thrum in between his fingers, almost like electricity arcing between them, and smiled. “We’re good.”

“Amazing,” Arthur said. Merlin had to duck his head to hide his blush, even though no one could see him. The pride in Arthur’s voice, and the wonder at Merlin’s magic, never ceased to make Merlin embarrassed in the best way.

He never would have expected this, when he’d gone to rob the Duke of Camelot’s country estate. He hadn’t expected to get caught lifting some art that was actually stolen by the Nazis in World War II and rightfully belonged to the Wattenberg family in Poland, nor had he expected to be caught in the middle of using magic to steal said art—and by the Duke’s son, of all people.

The biggest surprise of all, though, had been when the Duke’s son (“Arthur, please, just call me Arthur,”) had helped Merlin steal the art and then asked to join him.

The look in Arthur’s eyes when he’d first seen Merlin was something Merlin would treasure forever: the absolute wonder as he saw Merlin use his magic to lift a heavy painting off the wall all on his own, and the way he’d sounded so proud of Merlin already when he’d said, “You’re Emrys, aren’t you? The art thief. You’re the best in the world.”

Merlin knew it was stupid, but he could easily say he’d fallen in love with Arthur in that moment, even though he didn’t even know him.

He was snapped back to the present as Arthur spoke in his ear again. “All right, I’ve got everything secured.”

Merlin lowered his hand, feeling the connection to magic subside to a crackle at the back of his mind, one that he could maintain without, hopefully, exhausting himself. Arthur hated it when Merlin used too much magic and all but collapsed afterwards, his face becoming pale and his jaw clenching with worry. “On my way.”

He slipped around to the side and helped Arthur load the artwork into the car that Lance had so helpfully provided—without asking too many questions, thank God.

“You all good?” Arthur asked as they settled into their seats. He reached across to take Merlin’s hand in his own, his eyes searching Merlin’s. “You’re not too tired?”

“It’s just some security cameras,” Merlin said, grinning. “I’ve handled much worse.”

“I just want to be sure.” Arthur squeezed his hand and then let go so he could drive. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

Merlin couldn’t help but continue to grin like a dope as he watched Arthur carefully drive them away from the museum—a museum where, in the morning, the guards would be aghast at the now-missing five paintings from one of their galleries. Merlin closed his eyes briefly so that he could concentrate, feeling the image brand itself into the wall where the painting had once been.

The press would be there in no time, and the police, all seeing the same thing: the brand of a dragon, of Emrys, replacing the priceless artwork. Meanwhile, the paintings would be going through Gaius to their rightful owners.

It was why the press loved Emrys. He was a thief who mysteriously always got away, no security too tight for him, but he also struck people who were corrupt, like mafia members, or stole art that had been taken from its rightful owners and returned it. The art world’s Robin Hood, some said.

But like every time, Merlin felt a pang of guilt. He opened his eyes and looked over at Arthur. “You know,” he said, quietly, knowing it would make Arthur angry to bring this up, “Your father would probably welcome you home. If you wanted to return.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched but he didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Why is it that the smoother the operation goes, the more you fret? And I’m not going home. I told you, and I meant it, I’m not going to let myself live an unhappy life out of some sense of duty. I’m doing real good here. We’re doing real good.”

“But you can do good as a member of the nobility as well,” Merlin replied.

Abruptly all of the tension went out of Arthur. He sighed, and reached over for Merlin’s hand, interlocking their fingers once again. “Nobility is defined by what you do,” he said. “Not who you are. What I’m doing here with you, I think, is far more noble than any title I might inherit.”

Merlin brought Arthur’s hand up to press a feather-light kiss to his knuckles. “I’m proud of you. I know—I know your dad might not be, but I am. I want you to know that.”

Arthur squeezed Merlin’s hand. “And your opinion is the only one that matters, Merlin.”

Merlin’s cheeks, God help him, warmed at that and he had to look away from Arthur, filled with too much emotion and certain his eyes gave it all away.

“So, now that we’ve got any ridiculous notions of my leaving you out of the way,” Arthur went on, “How about we get these paintings to Gaius, and then return the car to Lance, and then you and I go back home and have a proper celebratory shag and pass out until noon, hmm?” He took his eyes off the road to flash a grin at Merlin.

And Merlin, helpless as ever when it came to Arthur, grinned back. “Sounds perfect.”


End file.
